


Niveous

by Tsume_Yuki



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Female Harry Potter, Master of Death Harry Potter, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2016-03-24
Packaged: 2018-05-25 02:11:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6176236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tsume_Yuki/pseuds/Tsume_Yuki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She darts about with hair like the brightest of fires, eyes greener than ought he has ever seen before. Lighting strikes across her face like war paint, fine white lines that intersect her forehead, eyes and cheeks. </p>
<p>And Jon is infatuated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

 

.

_ Jon _

_. _

Jon is the one that finds her.

 

He has long since lost track of the amount of hunts he has partaken in, only secure in the knowledge that he wields a sword with skill, and that the bow and it's arrow now feel natural in his hands.

Robb stalks ahead of him, eager to bring back a true prize of a beast for their father, the father only he shares a name with between the two of them.

Jon does not begrudge him, for none of this is Robb's fault.

Oh, he is bitter about his status, do not believe Jon to be otherwise. He never asked to be a bastard, never asked to be born of his father's dishonour to Lady Stark.

Yet, here he remains, handed this truly awful deck in life and told to deal with it, as only bastards could.

'Snow' follows him around, the name a heavy weight upon his shoulder, a shackle and rock forever keeping him upon the riverbed.

And his half-brothers, his half-sisters, sit above the surface in the glorious light of being trueborn.

Perhaps that is why he takes such great pleasure in being the best swordsman among them, in knowing that while his birth makes him worthless, his skills do not. If nothing else, at least he may protect that which he considers important.

There are, after all, more opportunities to being the bastard of a Lord, than to be a bastard son of a low life.

 

 

 

Regardless, there are times in which the lack of direction, the lack of a significant future, begin to weigh heavy upon his shoulders.

Today is one such day.

 

 

  
Jon has wandered off from the main hunting party, consisting of his father, a few of his men, and Theon Greyjoy.

Jon holds no love for Theon, and that is something very much shared between the two of them. He is a ward of the House of Stark, yet he stands as tall and stalks around as if he walked upon his own lands. Jon detested his attitude, disgusted that a man born to such nobility, a true born, could act in such a manner.

But, as Lords have passed through throughout the years, greeting his Lord Father, Jon has come to learn that not all men are as honourable as Eddard Stark.

  
He ignores that his very existence is perhaps the greatest of stains upon Eddard Stark's honour.

 

 

  
Stumbling slightly upon a tree root that is not as buried beneath the snow as it perhaps should be, Jon catches himself on the bark of the trunk, heaving out a breath and flexing the leather of his gloves. The worn material curves comfortably around his fingers, not yet a man's hands, but beyond that of an awkward boy. The evidence of his breath curls in the air before him, wispen trails of smoky fingers, so much easier on his eyes than the pipes men smoke within the dining halls. If this is summer, Jon thinks, he has no wish to see true winter fall upon them.

Gathering his wits, the bastard of Winterfell turns his senses outwards, focusing, attempting to locate the greatest prey within the woods, to present to his Lord Father for dinner in the eve.

Instead, a shock of red draws his attention and Jon staggers to a halt.

There is a figure passed out upon the grass.

Slowly rubbing at his weary eyes, Jon attempts to take in the sight before him again, but nothing remains unchanged.

There is still a figure passed out face first in the snow, dropped in thick fabric and furs of evident quality.

The hair is unlike anything he has ever seen.

Before this moment, he had always thought Robb and the Lady Stark to be redheads, along with the half siblings that share their mother's colouring.

Now he knows differently.

The mass of curling hair before him glimmers with all the shades of sunset, though red remains the predominant colour, stark against the crisp freshness of the snow.

In that moment, Jon realises that the snowfall of the hour past does not rest upon the figure, and hastens to their side with adrenaline thrumming beneath his veins.

Beneath all that fur and the thick cloaks, their skin is cold to the touch, but not deathly cold, and Jon hastily rolls them upon their back.

The air is torn from his lungs in that second as he stares down, eyes wide in surprise.

The figure is female, older than both Sansa and Arya, but perhaps no older than both Robb and he. Certainly she is beautiful, sharp features just beginning to rise from the puppy fat of her cheeks.

Scarring unlike at he has ever seen before stretches across her forehead, gliding beneath the Crimson of her brows and dancing across the kids of her eyes to halt as her cheeks swell. A delicate lacework, the likes of which Sansa could only ever dream of creating.

Jon knows of no wound that would create such a marking.

Hesitantly, he prises off a glove and presses the back of his hand to the female's cheek, white as bone from the snow that has embraced it. When he looks, he finds a near perfect indent of her face upon the snow, though it is soft to the touch.

She cannot have been here, unconscious, for more than ten minutes.

Enough time for the chill to have set in.

Tearing the admittedly fine furs from her shoulders, Jon fingers the thick wool of her cloak and when it seems dry enough, shrugging off his own furs and coils them around her in exchange for her own.

The garment settles upon his shoulders like a fresh blanket of snow, and he knows the heat collected from his body will be seeping from his cloak into the woman's skin.

To be sure, he sits her up, wrapping her small frame within his arms and pressing his face alongside her's, remembering the lessons every occupant of Winterfell were taught.

Warm the torso and head first, the extremities would come second. The torso and the head were the most important.

 

 

  
It seems like an uncomfortably long time he remains there, knelt within the snow, a girl no older than four and ten held close to him.

Jon valiantly tries to ignore the ever so subtle curve of her breasts beneath the thick furs; they would be unnoticeable were she not resting fully upon him.

 

 

  
At last though, her eyes flutter, dark lashes skipping upon the slowly rosing cheeks before finally sense seems to return to her.

She looks up at him, and Jon is struck breathless by the bright green of her eyes, like leaves alight by the sun, and never before has he seen such bold colouring upon a person.

Strangest of all though, she does not cringe away from him as some of the serving girls do from those who heckle them. She does not scream at the unexpected contact with a male.

If anything, she shuffles closer to him, pressing their faces back together again, her cheek colder than the bitter wind of the North, though now he can feel her breaths growing strong against his jaw.

"Hello," she whispers, and Jon tries not to startle at the sound of her voice.

It is not the sweetened honey that Sansa speaks with, nor is it the sharp bold tones of Arya. Heavily accented, but not one he recognises in the slightest. And his Lord Father has had many a guest pass through while journeying.

He attempts to say something in return, but the words catch in his throat, and Jon is painfully aware that he has never spoken to a woman of his own age before. Not when they were pressed together in an almost intimate fashion.

He need not worry though, for the woman slips back into the clutches of her dreamland, vibrant green disappearing behind the lacework scarring that resembles the crackle of lightning in the sky.

Huffing out a breath and well aware no hunting would be happening right now, Jon gathers the young woman in his arms, one beneath her legs and the other beneath her back, and proceeds to scoop her up.

His shouldered bow now digs uncomfortable despite the many layers he wears, and is weighed down given the thick wool of her cloaks and the expanse of his own furs.

But he can manage for now.

His father would know what to do with the girl, for certainly Jon did not.

 

 

Exhaling, Jon takes one more glance at the peaceful face nestled in the crook of his collarbone, and then he starts after the hunting party.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

 

 

_"Please, spare my son."_

_"I cannot watch over one mortal," the voice whispers as the human's teeth ground together._

_But then, the voice continues, "I can send my mortal to watch over him. It is the best I can do."_

_Something, after all, is better than nothing._

 

 

.  
   
_Eddard_  
   
.

 

 

The girl worries him.

A day past, Jon had stumbled upon the hunting party with his arms full, a girl laid unconscious within them. Ned could remember the noise of interest that had escaped from between Theon Greyjoy's lips, the startled inhale of his eldest.

Not that he could blame the two of them.

With a colouring as bright as the Southerner's Summers, the young woman was certainly eye catching.  
Even now, as she lays still upon the bed housed within one of their many guest rooms, her face is beautiful, peaceful.  
Jon had been in a panic when he found them, insisting the girl had woken for but a moment and then passed back into a state of unconsciousness. The lad had been instant that she had to be exceptionally unwell, given that she saw no problem in how close he had been holding her to starve off the onset of cold.

He never sees the eyes of the serving girls following him as he walks by, as he grows. Bastard or not, Jon embodies the North, wears the Stark features better than he could any cloak of furs. Were it not for the world they lived in, Ned is sure the boy would already have girls throwing themselves before his feet.

   
A sharper breath than the norm draws Ned's attention back to the female guest, who's face no longer remains at peaceful rest.

He has no idea whom the girl belongs to, be it a Great House, or something as low as slavers. But she wears fine cloth, thick furs of quality -bear fur, if he is not mistaken- and there is more to be said for the jewellery she wears.

Tiny emeralds sit within the lobes of her ears, two rings adorning her right hand. One clearly a family heirloom, a golden band that rests upon her middle finger, a house crest painstakingly engraved upon the surface and inlaid with molten rubies.

The second ring stumped him though.

A signet ring, clumsily made and housing a cracked back stone, upon which a geometric symbol rests. Ugly, old judging from the scratches upon the golden band, and certainly holding some form of meaning or another. Given that it matches the pendant the girl wears upon a silver chain, Ned gathers that the bisected circle housed within the triangle holds a particular meaning.

With a frown, he gets to his feet, heading to the little meeting with his most trusted as his most beloved wife, upon which the girl will be the topic.

 

 

 

 

"...another mouth to feed."

"She can work, there is always work."

"Even if there is no cleaning or cooking to be found, her face is pretty enough..." Hallis Mollen trails off, and Ned is aware that there has to be a certain set to his face to cause such a thing.

But he would not have the girl pushed towards the whore houses.

Not until they exhausted every other options. And there were a fair few; the cut of her face clearly gave lead to a nobleman's daughter, never mind those rings.

The question was, who's?

Ned has heard nothing, no bragging from the other lords of being gifted with such a fair daughter. And fair she was, with that truly unusual colouring to her hair, and if Jon were to be believed, eyes greener than the summer leaves.

"The girl wears gems," he says instead, meeting the eyes of each of his guardsmen, of the captain and his wife, "rings of gold fit to her fingers as if made only for her, yet certainly they bare the marks of age."  
The men around him quieten at that, none dating to murmur. There is every chance that this young woman Jon has found is of nobility, even though Ned can think of no Lord capable of producing such looks. She appears unlike any he has ever seen before.

Jon insisted she spoke with an accent he was unused to, perhaps she ventures for beyond the seas? From parts unknown to them, lands they have yet to explore and contact.

"We wait until she wakes," his wife insisted, eyes burning into his with a passionate insistence that let him know she would be unmoved upon this topic.

Perhaps she feels for the girl with hair redder than a Tully, whom while dressed for the North, does not appear to belong.  
 So like her.

"My Lady Wife has spoken."

And that was the end of it for the moment.

  
.  
   
_Arya_  
   
.  
 

"She was a beauty though, Robb. Were I the one who found her, I certainly wouldn't have handed her right over to Lord Stark, that's for sure."

Arya stills, having once again been creeping away from her sewing lessons in favour of watching her brothers fight once more. It is only practice, not with live steel, but it is still far more interesting than the tiny silver needle she was given to work over.

But Theon's voice had stilled her movements, and Arya flexes her fingers as she presses back against the stone wall.

There is only one woman that the Greyjoy could be referring to, Arya knows.

The youngest daughter of Eddard Stark had only caught the barest glimpse as they returned yesterday, but it had been enough to recognise her should they ever meet.

Hair of fire and blood, coiling in a mass thicker and lengthier than that of her half brother Jon's. A sprawling thing, as bright and bold as the full moon in the dead of night.

Her Lord Father had taken the young woman up to their guest quarters, and then barred the whole lot of them from entering until she was awake.

Arya knew that Bran was just as eager to go and see the woman, had attempted to climb up the side of the walls to shimmy in through the window. Their father had caught him though, and that was the first time Arya had ever seen the man shout at his middle son. Bran had been scolded, and with the heavy threat of his mother being informed about his constant climbings, he'd been brought to heel, forced to wait for the woman to be introduced like the rest of them.

Well, not Arya.

She has plans, she was determined to see this woman before the rest, to understand her story.  
The whole thing is incredibly exciting; why would a woman be out within the great expanse of the North without a man to protect her, be he husband, Ser or otherwise?

Certainly, there is some kind of dramatic story behind it, some kind of tale filled with excitement and adventure. Nothing like the happenings of the songs Sansa favours; Arya prays reverently that the woman isn't travelling for lost love, or forbidden love, or something equivalently stupid as that.

Sucking in her cheeks, Arya coils her hands into fists, already decided on what she is going to do.

Her Lord Father and Lady Mother were in a meeting with those they trusted, her brothers learning the blade, and her sister off learning how to be the perfect wife.

Arya, well, she will be the one to figure out the story of this stranger.

"I doubt she'd let you anywhere near her," Robb's voice floats through the air, with the sharp crack of morning ice hidden within his tone, and Arya's mouth curves up into a smirk.

Oh, how she would love to witness the woman with hair of fire put Theon Greyjoy in his place. The older boy was so smug, so sure of himself, and he was awful to women. She'd seen how he treated the serving girls. Even if the stranger only punched him in the nose, it would be enough of a treat for Arya.

"Come on then, Bastard, what do you think? She let you hold her nice and close, I'm sure I'd be able to get her up against the wall, screaming my name."

Fury unlike anything before burns through Arya. Her mother has long since given both herself and Sansa a talking to, regarding wifely duties, what is expected of them. To lay with a man outside of marriage is unacceptable.

The muffle smack of a hand meeting head has Arya sure that Robb has just delivered a blow upon Theon, and all to rightly. Speaking about the stranger like that isn't very nice at all.

"You shouldn't speak of her like that, Lord Stark said it's likely she's a Lord's daughter."

"She'll be fit for me then."

"You're disgusting."

Gritting her teeth and in full agreement with her eldest brother's words, Arya spins on her heels, stalking for the guest chambers.

She'd spent so long exploring, so many days shifting back and forth through Winterfell, that she has long since discovered so many of the secret passageways, that perhaps she has found them all. Ones that perhaps even her father didn't know of.

Stealing away, the youngest daughter of the House of Stark smirks to herself.

  


.

_Hariel_

.

 

Everything is out of focus. Hariel Lillian Potter blinks, her eyes narrowed as she looked around this place, trying to piece the world around her into something true and solid.

Instead, there is just a blur of colours, and a sensation. One of deep rooted desperation, as if something was reaching out for her, trying and failing and getting all the more furious for it.

Not furious at her, so to speak.

More, as if it were mad at itself, for being unable to make contact.

Hariel wonders just what it wants, what the world could possibly need from her now. But as she tries to think back, her memories dance just out of grasp.

Oh, she knew she was Hariel Lillian Potter, as she knew her parents names, all the names of her immediate family, and that she was a witch. A powerful witch.

But, the finer details, they keep slipping out from between her fingers.

She is Hariel Lillian Potter, the Lady of the House of Black, last of the famous Peverell Family, the Master of Death.

She also cannot remember where she is, what she is doing, or even who she should attempt to contact.

Hissing in pain, Hariel watches at the strange blurry world fades away into nothingness.

 

 

 

Nothingness that is quickly adverted when she opens her eyes to meet startled grey.

 

 


End file.
